THIRTY-EIGHT

It’s a stupid question. I mean, the answer is obvious. Even to a five-year-old who is a decent counter. Why does thirty-eight seem so much closer to forty than thirty-seven?

Because it is!

 Today I turn thirty-eight. And, today, for the first time in the thirty-eight years of my life, I feel old. OLD.

It hurts too much to repeat it again.

My dear friend Allyson would tell me that age is mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter. And that is true. Honestly, I’ve never much cared about getting older. A couple of weeks ago I think my sister Sally had a mid-life crisis turning thirty. I rejoiced to turn thirty. Anything had to be better than the decade of my twenties! But forty?!?!? Since my years might, by reason of strength, be eighty…well, I think a mid-life crisis is somewhat justified.

I know, I know. I should hardly start panicking now. Thirty-eight is not forty. My husband has been in his forties for three years now. And while I may have more grey hairs, I’m quite exhausted most days and my body does not recover like it did even two years ago…I have to remind myself often that I’ve had grey hairs since I was twenty-five, I am parenting two toddlers when most people my age did that ten or fifteen years ago and my recovery time is less and less every year.  That’s life.

But, to be honest I’m trying not to think about the whole age thing very much. I just keep telling myself I’m simply having a birthday. I’m going to make my favorite broccoli cheddar soup, bake some crusty bread and even throw together a cheesecake (which I haven’t done in nearly ten years). And while the usual yearly spring thaw on February 21 spoiled my hopes and prayers for snow (for the 38^th time in my life), at least that means I can go on a good run to burn off those birthday calories. And start praying for snow next year on February 21…again.

Me at eight years old…I can’t believe that was thirty years ago!